


Water Thicker Than Blood

by plumeria47



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9462203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumeria47/pseuds/plumeria47
Summary: When Sherlock is injured on an investigation, he insists John be the one to patch him up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written Feb 2012 in response to Jelazakazone's non-sexual intimacy prompts.

When John heard the key in the lock, he barely looked up from the computer. Who else would it be but Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson always knocked, even though technically the flat belonged to her; she was always proper and careful like that. John suspected she still thought he and Sherlock were an item, and probably worried about stumbling in on them thrashing about naked on the kitchen table, or something, if she didn't properly knock and announce herself. Not that John would have minded being naked on the kitchen table with Sherlock, but their relationship, close though it was, remained firmly in the "brotherly love" category. He considered himself lucky to have even that much attachment and affection from the dizzyingly distractible detective.

Sure enough - the person now pushing open the door was Sherlock. But John's casual verification turned into a stunned double-take as he noted Sherlock's wilder-than-usual hair and, more worryingly, the rips and tears in his shirt. He had his overcoat bunched up in one arm, rather than wearing it as he usually did. Immediately, John saw why - Sherlock was bleeding, the dark blood caking his shirt where one of the nastier-looking rips was.

"Bloody hell!" he swore, jumping up from his chair and rushing over to his friend. "What in the name of God's green earth have you been doing this time?"

Sherlock gave a self-deprecating snort and a wry smile as he tossed his crumpled coat onto the sofa. "Merely assessing the ease with which one may get under, over, through and otherwise circumvent the barbed wire fence surrounding Alistair Robert's sheep farm."

"Do you mean to tell me that you rode the train all the way into town like this?" John sputtered as he knelt down to take a closer look at Sherlock's wounds.

"I wasn't bleeding to death, and the train was the most efficient way of getting home, surely you know that."

"But there must've been a doctor nearer than here?"

"And have my own medical man fuss over another man's work?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

John sighed. "Fine. Sit there-" he pointed at a kitchen chair "-and take off that blasted shirt. I'll be right back." When he returned from the bathroom with a variety of bandages, medical tape and antiseptics, he saw Sherlock had managed to undo his buttons, but was having trouble easing the shirt away from some of his bloodier wounds.

"Don't pull - let me do that." John went back to the bathroom for a clean washcloth, which he soaked in warm water. Returning, he paused for a moment at the sight of Sherlock sitting there, steadily returning his gaze; his chest was bare and his wild hair begged to be combed into some semblance of tidiness. Preferably with John's fingers.

He squashed the thought as he returned to Sherlock's side and bent to his work. Slowly, gently, he dabbed at Sherlock's sides and back with the washcloth, easing the shirt away from him as the dried blood came off. He rinsed the washcloth out and came back to carefully wash dirt away from the wounds, cleaning most of his left side, back, and a bit of his belly in the process; he was glad to see that most of the injuries were minor. He tried not to think about how he was kneeling between Sherlock's legs as he bent to clean some scratches on his lower abdomen.

Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent throughout all of this, sitting quietly while John tended to him. The only sound was his breathing, mostly slow and steady, punctuated by a few quiet gasps, his torso expanding and contracting under John's hands.

"Sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No." The short word was squeezed out through gritted teeth. John was not convinced.

After applying some antiseptic to the worst wounds, John carefully added sterile gauze pads, wrapping Sherlock's ribs securely with medical tape so the makeshift bandages would stay put. He relished the opportunity to gently slide his fingers along Sherlock's warm, dry skin as he secured the tape and to breathe in his familiar scent, despite the current undertones of dried sweat and grass and dirt.

John shook himself from his reverie and rose, wincing a little at his stiff hip. "There." He gave a reassuring pat to Sherlock's bare shoulder. "Now, no more wrestling with barbed-wire fences, doctor's orders."

"Thank you - I knew I could count on you." After giving himself a brief visual inspection, Sherlock stood and fetched a clean, mercifully un-shredded shirt. He seemed to have recovered from his silence as well as his injuries the moment John had finished. Would that all his patients had bounced back so quickly. "Right then. I'm off to compare coffin sizes for the Carfax case." Sherlock flicked his eyes up as he finished with the buttons. "Care to come along?"

John smiled. "Of course."

**Author's Note:**

> The coffin size remark is a reference to A.C. Doyle's "The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax."
> 
> I know this is short - I was going through a dry spell at the time - but I would still love to hear from you! Comments (including concrit) very much appreciated. And thank you for reading!


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